


Expression Of Dance

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ballet, Gen, M/M, Shiratorizawa, b-boying, dance au, kind of angst, mentions of figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Ballet is controlled, graceful, charming. But it is constricting, and Shirabu wants to be free.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Mitsouparker](http://mitsouparker.tumblr.com/)'s [Shiratorizawa dance AU](http://mitsouparker.tumblr.com/post/154825801256/twitter-dump-shiratorizawa-danceau-yay-for).
> 
> I am aware of the many dance inaccuracies in this, because all the knowledge I have of these types of dance were taken from Wiki and what little I could ask my friend about. If anyone can correct me/teach me what it is actually like, please do!

He is the prima ballerina, an ethereal being, poised beauty and grace.

He stands in the spotlight, head bowed, arms spread wide, wrists hanging loosely, inviting.

The bow glides across the strings, a long note is drawn out, and like an unfurling vine, he moves.

Sweeping, stepping, a kick into the air. Pirouette, attitude, fondu.

The entire stage is his, the light following him as he plays out his story, keeping away the shadows curling at the edges.

His dance is smooth and graceful, each movement carefully controlled, perfectly executed. A textbook model, a perfect machine.

He hates it.

But he dances on, and eventually the shadows grow long, other ballerinas stepping out to join him, surrounding him, supporting him, complementing his tale.

The audience thinks it ends all too soon, a tinkling finish, but abrupt nonetheless. They clap politely, and only start gossiping when the curtains are drawn.

_He was spectacular today._

_So lovely, so perfect._

_I wonder how he trains. I’d love to stand on that stage with him one day._

He knows what they say. As the principal, everyone is either out to get him, or they support him religiously. He has ears everywhere, and while it pleases him, it stresses him as well.

_Leave me be. Leave me be._

Some days, the pressure is too much. Some days, he wants to get away.

Some days, their artistic director gives them a break after a performance.

Today is one of those days.

He ducks into his changing room after they are dismissed, peeling off his costume and heading for the shower. He showers quickly, determined to escape before any other ballerina can catch him.

He flips his hood up, and steps into the street.

\-----

The streets are busy, filled with people who are only interested in their own business, people who do not care for ballet and do not know any of its complexities. It is a strange world, a forbidden land, and he revels in it.

He passes clubs with loud music pumping out, stops to consider the sound. It is not as elegant as classical, but the beat makes his heart jump, makes him feel like joining in.

But it is not his dance, not his song, so he turns away.

He ends up at the ice rink, head on arms, watching as the skaters practice. He keeps an eye out for ash blond hair, eyes scanning the crowd, ears taking in the scraping of blades against ice.

Come to think of it, who could say that his hair was still blond? He could have dyed it back to brown.

He sighs and pushes upright. His muscles still ache from the performance, but ice skating is as good a pastime to unwind as any.

He nods to the person behind the rental counter, waiting for his skates to be passed over to him. There is no one else waiting in line, and the cashier looks bored, almost like he cannot wait to get off his shift.

He hesitates just a second. _Asking can’t hurt. This is his home rink, after all._

“Is Semi-san around?”

The cashier snaps to attention immediately, eyes alert, brows furrowed. “No. What do you want him for?”

“I’m a friend.”

“Funny, he didn’t mention any friends visiting.” The man raises an eyebrow, expression stern. He sighs.

“I like to be anonymous. Can you call him?”

“I can’t find my phone. Why don’t _you_ call him?” The cashier’s arms are folded now, hostility radiating off him.

He considers this. Why _hadn’t_ he called him?

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through the almost non-existent list, selecting the name he wants.

The call goes to voicemail, and he tells the cashier so.

The man shrugs. “I told you he’s not here today. He has hip-hop on Thursdays.”

 _Hip-hop_ , he thinks absentmindedly. _He never mentioned hip-hop._

“Where can I find him?”

The cashier gives him a nasty look. “If you are his friend, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“We don’t keep in contact often.”

“Oh?”

“Would you associate with someone from the same company you left a bad note on?”

_Ah, obvious. Way too obvious._

The cashier’s mouth pops open in understanding. “You’re a ballerina.”

He doesn’t correct him. “Where can I find him?”

“Are you sure he'd want to see you?”

The man has a point. Not that he cares.

“He'll see me.” He tells him confidently, though he knows the opposite is true. Semi dislikes him for a variety of reasons, but he is still his senior, still the principal before him.

The cashier purses his lips, scrutinizing him. Slowly, he reaches for pen and paper, and hands him an address.

“Thanks.”

He turns to leave, and hears a call of, “Hey, weren’t you going to skate?”

He waves the enquiry off. “Nah. Another day.”

\-----

The studio is not too far from the rink, just a small back room in a quiet building. He raps on the door, waiting a long while before anyone opens up.

The man who opens the door is tall and muscular, with a friendly, open face. “Hello. I haven’t seen you before. Are you looking for someone?”

“Um.” He didn’t want to give his name, though it would be polite to. “I’m looking for Semi-san.”

The man looks surprised. “Hayato must have sent you.”

He thinks of the cashier at the rink, assumes it is him, and nods.

The man holds the door open a little wider, inviting him in. “We’re almost done for the day, but you’re welcome to watch. Eita will be all yours soon.”

He blushes at his choice of words, but steps in anyway.

A second door is opened, and loud music assaults his ears, a heavy beat that sets his pulse aflame.

He can see the dancers now, their bodies oddly fluid in contrast to the music. There are so many twists and turns, drops and stops, and he doesn’t know how to label them, doesn’t know where to begin.

He goes to stand by the opposite wall, far enough from them but close enough to watch. He spots the shock of ash blond, smiling wryly when he realises that some things would never change.

_A bad dye job and a terrible choice of colour. Why do I ever expect more?_

But while he reminisces, strong movement catches his eye. A solidly built man, moving to the music as fluidly as any of the smaller bodies beside him. He can see his muscles rippling, sweat shining, he can feel the power he exudes.

It’s awe-inspiring, and he is captivated.

He wants to move like that.

The music drops and ends, and all the dancers are on their feet, slapping each others’ backs and complimenting each other. He sees the powerful man take the compliments with a stoic expression, though the tiniest of smiles lifts his lips as he joins their conversation.

They move to get their bottles, and he shifts, suddenly aware that he is staring.

The ash blond catches sight of him, and chokes on his water.

He smirks a little.

When he is done coughing, the man shrugs the other dancers' hands off, approaching him slowly. “Shirabu.”

He tilts his head. “Semi-san.”

Semi cocks his head, eyes taking in the studio, taking in the one before him. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replies honestly, though his eyes dart to the strong man. It seems that he can’t stop looking, and he doesn’t know why.

Semi catches his glance, a smirk growing on his face. “You know Wakatoshi?”

“No.” But he would love to.

“Let me introduce you.” His hand is on his arm, tugging him forward, and he pushes at him weakly.

“Don’t tell them.”

“Tell them what?” Semi frowns. “This is a place of no boundaries. I am not a principal past my prime here, nor am I a skater. I am myself, and I come to break free.”

He dips his head. “But when they know...”

“They will not judge.” The words are said softly, and the grip on his arm loosens. “We are equal here. What you are beyond this room does not matter.”

“But–”

“Didn’t you come here to forget?”

He looks up in surprise, meeting his senior's soft smile. “You forget that I had to deal with that too.”

Another tug on his arm. “Come. Meet them. Learn to forget.”

He lifts his head, eyes hard and determined.

He steps forward.

\-----

The first thing Semi makes him promise is to not come on Thursdays.

“Thursdays are my day,” he tells him. “We both know what happens if we dance together, and this will be no different. I want my peace.”

He thinks it makes sense.

He agrees.

The second thing, he learns, is that it is not called hip-hop.

“Hip-hop is a culture. Someone made a dance out of it, but that’s not what we do. What we have here – this is called b-boying, or breaking.”

“What’s the difference?”

An exasperated sigh. “It’s a subset of hip-hop. Like how sushi is a subset of Japanese food.”

“Oh, so it’s comparable to food?”

“Shut up.”

The third thing, is the powerful man's name.

Ushijima Wakatoshi.

He thinks it has a nice ring to it. Solid, steadfast.

Dependable.

He is enamoured, and hopes it doesn’t show.

He makes a friend within their small group – a tall, unbothered man by the name of Kawanishi Taichi – and as he learns, Kawanishi is the furthest thing from unbothered.

He just tries to expand as little energy as possible. Not that it stops his tongue.

“You’ve been staring at Ushijima-san for five minutes.”

“I’m studying his technique,” he replies absently, eyes raking over the perfect form before him.

“You're not suited to that style. Start with something easier.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Kawanishi shrugs, then lifts himself onto his hands, body straight. He snaps his gum, spreading his legs in a perfect split, one leg tipping towards the earth as if he would fall.

He tips forward, and Shirabu almost calls out, almost shouts at him to stop. But the words are frozen on his tongue, and he sees Kawanishi tilt into the movement, landing painfully.

“Damn,” he hears him mutter. “Still need to work on that.”

The spell breaks, anger and worry rushing through him.

“Why’d you do that?” He demands. “You could’ve been hurt!”

Kawanishi looks at him, pops a bubble.

“That’s a move. We call it ‘suicide’, and it’s perfectly safe if you do it right.”

He stares, then gets to his feet.

“Teach me.”

\-----

One thing he learns about not clashing with Semi's schedule? That he gets Ushijima all to himself.

Almost.

“Ushijima-san! I bet I can do the toprock faster than you!”

“But isn't the point to do it together with the rest? The performance would look a lot better with everyone in sync.”

The boy – for he is only a boy – pouts, and argues. “Normal b-boys don’t dance together!”

“We are not regular b-boys. This is our style. Togetherness, cohesiveness.”

He watches the boy struggle for words, before his shoulders finally slump. He watches him shout, “I’ll surpass you one day!”

“I see.” Ushijima turns away, and Shirabu snickers at the boy's frustration.

“Start practicing, or Tsutomu will surpass you too.” Kawanishi comments drily, and he flushes.

“I am a beginner.”

“With a ballet background,” the blond points out. “You have a lot more flexibility and strength than he does.”

“That doesn’t help me here.”

Kawanishi gives him a look, sighing and raising his voice. “Tsutomu, come here for a bit.”

The boy comes bounding up, bouncing on his feet. “Yes, Kawanishi-senpai!”

Kawanishi looks pained, and he snickers. Serves him right.

“Show Kenjirou how to do a flare.”

He shoots a dirty look at his friend, then turns to the boy – Goshiki? – and nods. “Please.”

The boy beams, and drops to the floor, legs and hands spinning. It is too fast to see, but he likes the look of it.

“Tsutomu.” Kawnishi sounds pained. _“Slowly.”_

“Right!”

He repeats it, a slower circle, but it is still impossible to replicate. He frowns, hand on chin, thinking.

“Shirabu.”

He snaps to attention, form freezing, because he _knows_ _that voice._ Ushijima regards him calmly, then beckons him over.

“I will teach you the six-step, and then the flare.”

He walks over to his side, feeling the stares of the other two on his back, and smirks internally.

Things are looking up.

\-----

He trains with them. He learns the different moves. He learns the difference between _toprock, floorwork_ and _power moves_ , and how to move his body to the beat. He learns the names and specialities of the members of their group, and how he can develop his own style.

It is so different from the planned choreography of ballet, so spontaneous and wild and free. If he messes up, there are no consequences. If he messes up, he rolls with the movement, and turns it into another move. There are no boundaries.

It is different also because he is not the main character. When he dances with them, he is part of a whole, the spotlight shared, the music a tempo in their blood. He is invisible, and he loves it.

It is liberating, and it brings a smile to his face, unlike the monotony of ballet.

One day, he hears about their performance.

“It’s a street performance, just a opening number to that new movie showing. We will be performing the toprock piece we've been practicing, with individual performances, if we have time.”

He feels his mouth move. “Can we perform in pairs?”

Voices echo around him, opinions cutting him down.

“It will be difficult.”

“There won't be enough space.”

“We can try.”

Ushijima smiles, even as the rest look at him with surprise.

“We have worked with less. Let us show them what we are capable of.”

\-----

He asks Ushijima to dance with him. He agrees.

“I have been preparing a combo for a while, and it requires someone strong enough to perform it. I have seen your style. It suits mine, and we will complement each other well.”

He has never been so ecstatic.

Kawanishi thinks he’s an idiot. “I hope you know Semi-san usually performs with him.”

He waves him off. “Ushijima-san picked _me._ ”

“You’re digging your own grave.”

He knows it as well, not that he cares.

Semi does turn up one practice, and corners him. “So you’re performing with Wakatoshi.”

He stares back defiantly, the posture oddly familiar. “I am.”

Semi stares at him, features hard. He looks away first, huffing, blond locks bouncing with the movement. “Fine. Taichi's my partner, then.”

Is he supposed to feel something about this arrangement? “Okay.”

Semi levels his gaze on him, eyes searching. “You need to tell Wakatoshi directly, if you want to make your point.”

He feigns ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

The look he gets is scathing and all-knowing. “Everyone knows except him. You're not subtle.”

He walks away, leaving Shirabu cursing his transparency.

\-----

It is not difficult to balance ballet and breaking at first, until he slips up and starts practicing his moves in what he thought was an empty studio.

“Kenjirou.”

He freezes – a perfect freeze, just the posture he had been trying to master for weeks – eyes darting about until he spots the source of the voice. His arms tremble with not exhaustion, but fear, and he lowers himself, untangling his limbs and shifting himself into _seiza_. “Washijou-san.”

The old man steps out from behind the piano, footsteps slow and echoing, and his fists tremble on his knees.

His head is lowered, and he sees the man's socked feet stop in front of him. He doesn’t dare to lift his head.

There is a long, long silence, tension stretched taut. When the artistic director finally speaks, he flinches, though his voice is no louder than a whisper.

“So you know how to breakdance.”

“It’s called b-boying, or breaking. _Not_ breakdance.”

He can feel the man’s surprise in his silence, his shock at being spoken back to. He is surprised himself. It is not like him to be so outspoken, to voice an opinion.

But maybe his new pastime has more than one benefit. He thinks himself more confident now, stronger, more adapted to standing up for what he wants.

He lifts his head.

Washijou eyes him contemplatively, arms folded. “Why did you choose this path?” He finally asks.

Shirabu is stunned. “Do you mean ballet or–?”

“B-boying.” His face twists when he says it, as if it is a vulgar word.

He feels his mouth move on its own, the words falling out like some foreign entity, though in all logic, he knows it is him. “I am liberated with this expression of dance.”

“Does ballet not liberate you?”

He is on a minefield, and one wrong step could mean his demise.

“Ballet is a world of shadows,” he begins slowly, watching Washijou’s face for any changes. “It is a chessboard, an intricate game, carefully controlled and played to bring out the best in us.

“Breaking,” he smiles to himself, “Is, for lack of a better word, a mess. It is vibrant and wild, spontaneous and dangerous, but the thrill it lends you makes you feel alive.

“I am not saying that I despise rules, nor that I hate the strings that control us in ballet. That is the way it works, the _reason_ that people watch us perform, the reason why we are ethereal and beautiful. But sometimes,” he pauses, “Does it not feel good to let loose, to embrace the wildness burning beneath your skin?”

The artistic director's face is a mask, a stern façade, an unreadable page. He sits back on his heels, and waits.

He thinks he has fallen asleep – his legs certainly have – when Washijou finally stirs, finally rises from his sea of thought. “Go.”

He had not been expecting that. “Sir?”

“Go and attend class with the others. I will speak to you soon.”

He lifts off his heels smoothly, despite the prickling and stabbing in his legs, and bows his way out of the room.

His heart is pounding ferociously even as he joins his fellows at the barre, even faster still as they move through their exercises. He remembers what happened to their last principal – a storm of shouting, a whirlwind of packing and the angry exit of a flash of ash blond. He had never heard the reason why he left, why he had been thrown into the role of principal – he had not cared, because a promotion was a promotion – but now, maybe he knows why. After all, didn’t Semi seem happier as a figure skater than he had as principal?

The choreographer calls for them to take their places, and as he shuffles to the side with the majority, he thinks about it.

It is Thursday, but maybe this would be the exception for visiting the small studio.

\-----

The moment he lays eyes on him, he takes him outside. They lean against the wall of the small alley, his gaze trained down, his partner’s tilted up, as if he is examining the graffiti on the walls.

At long last, he speaks. “Washijou found out?”

He nods mutely. “He was in the room, behind the piano.”

The ash blond snorts. “Typical. He’s not that much smaller than us, and yet he can hide behind it.”

His eyes dart to him, then back to the ground. “Were you practicing as well?”

“Mm. He didn’t take it very well, back then. Must’ve even a shock, to see another principal corrupted by b-boying.” He says _corrupted_ with a sneer in his voice, and Shirabu privately agrees.

“He took it quite calmly. I was surprised.”

“What were you practicing when he found you?”

“Freezes.”

“Ah. He caught me practicing toprock, with ballet elements.”

He thinks about his own style, about how he put some ballet in it as well, and thanks every god that he was not practicing that. Of course Washijou would think breaking corrupted ballet, if he saw toprock performed that way.

He looks up to the neon signs, the brightness burning his retinas. “If he kicks me out, where would I go?”

“You could skate with me,” the ash blond suggests, but he shakes his head. Skating is fun, but he would not turn it into his livelihood.

“Do you not know where you want to go?”

“No.” He exhales noisily. “Ballet is everything I ever wanted. I want to be on the stage, to show off my skills. It’s pressurising, but I can’t hate it.”

“You could join me.”

Both of them jolt at the voice, at the man emerging from the shadows. He inclines his head and says, “Forgive me for eavesdropping. I only wished to call you back to practice.”

Semi recovers first. “It’s fine. We’ll be along in a minute.”

But Ushijima is shaking his head, holding up a hand to stop him. “My offer stands.”

Shirabu realises he is addressing him. “Join…you?”

“My mother is the head of a small band of kabuki actors. It is not the sort of stage you are used to, but it is a stage nonetheless.”

He can feel their gazes on him, eyes boring holes, pressure demanding an answer.

“I will think about it.” He says at last, eyes meeting his saviour’s. “I have not been thrown out of the corps yet.”

Ushijima inclines his head. “Very well. Let us return to practice.”

\-----

Washijou does not seek him out, nor does he go to find him. Instead he keeps his head down, plays by the rules, allows himself to be swept into the choreography of a new performance.

He has two understudies this time, and it makes him cautious. He catches the artistic director's eye when the understudies are announced, and while the whispers of _why_ and _how_ start up around him, he sees the message conveyed through steel grey eyes. He lowers his head in deference.

He _can_ be replaced, is what the man is warning him. As he replaced the principal before him, so he too, can be cast aside.

All it takes is one wrong step, one misplaced toe.

He knows, he _knows_. But still he dances with fire, bops to the beat pounding in his head, takes time out after his usual practice, _skipping_ his extra practice, so that he can go dance with Ushijima.

And the rest of the crew, of course, but mostly Ushijima. The man neither seems to enjoy nor despise his company, remaining stoic as ever despite his offer of salvation.

Shirabu isn’t stupid. He knows when to give thanks for small miracles, and this – these few minutes, few moments of extra time spent together, without the judgement or curious glances of the others in their group – this is definitely a miracle that keeps recurring.

He wonders when it will end, when reality will catch up to him.

He hopes it never does.

Their performance for the new movie's opening starts without a hitch, their hours of practice paying off.

It is thrilling, to perform in front of spectators, to hear their gasps of awe. It is a different kind of thrill from performing ballet, less quiet awe and more loud amazement.

He steps back as their pair performance begins,  smirking to himself as he watches them _ooh_ over Goshiki and Oohira's catchy toprock, observes their _ahh_ s over the easy transition to Kawanishi and Semi's fast floorwork and elaborate freezes.

The beat changes, and as the other two roll out of the way, he pulls his cap lower on his face, sauntering forward with the leader of their crew.

A lull on the music, a _tap-tap-tap_ as the rhythm picks up, growing louder, wilder.

They move.

Fast, pounding beats, emphasised by simple but quick toprock, easily switching into general power moves no different from what the others have done.

He hears the murmur of dissent from the spectators, and smirks to himself.

Ushijima freezes, and he lifts himself up, into a double-leg circle flare.

Now he hears their gasps, their mutters of wonder, because they have never seen that style before. It is too smooth for a newbie, too elaborate for someone without proper training. It is gymnastics performed on the ground instead of on the pommel horse, unusual only because of its rarity.

 _Is he new?_ He catches, before he drops on his back spinning. _Who is he?_

He finishes, rises into a one-armed freeze, his legs spread in a side split, one hand on his cap. His arm is trembling, despite training for so long, but he holds, and holds, and holds–

The music drops, as his arm buckles.

He lands flat on his back, dead to the world for a second.

(He hears the gasps of horror, the exclamations of how painful it looks, and has to contain his laugh.)

(Learning suicides pays handsomely in amusement.)

The last song starts, and he bounces up, blending in behind the bigger members of the crew, adjusting his cap briefly.

One last routine, and they freeze, heads held high, held proud.

Loud cheering and whooping starts up, and he peeks from beneath the cap to smirk at the crowd. The other members stand and bow, and he with them, carefully ensuring that his face is hidden.

But the crowd has gone wild, gone _crazy_ , screaming and crying in excitement. They press forward, surrounding them, caging them in, hands reaching out to touch them, as if they are movie stars.

He presses against the person in front of him, trying to urge them forward, away from the prying hands. But then someone grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him away.

He cries out, and he sees the person he was pressed against turn around to grab his arm, but it is too late – he’s falling against the crowd, hands are everywhere, and suddenly–

It is bright.

The screams intensify, and he realises that his cap is gone.

_Shirabu! Shirabu!_

_It’s him! It’s really him!_

_Kenjirou! Kenjirou! Ken–_

“Shirabu!” A hand – he knows this hand, slim fingers, large palm – grabs his wrist, yanks him from the craze of fans. He sees cocoa eyes, wide with panic, under the brim of a cap, before he crashes into him, spurred by momentum.

He feels them collide into someone else, and while hands steady them, he winces when the screaming grows in pitch.

_Semi! Semi!_

_Eita-kun!_

_Look, look, look at me!_

He glances up, past the cloth of his shirt, sees ash blond locks bouncing, a flash of black disappearing as someone makes off with his cap.

_Damnit. This is why we tried to hide._

Larger hands grab his shoulders, haul him upright, breaking his mental cursing. He is forcibly tugged from Semi, spun around, his face pressed into a shirt.

“Go.”

He feels the rumble in the chest he is pulled tight against, hears the deep baritone utter a stern command, immediately executed. He stumbles as he tries to keep up, tries to move as quickly as his feet will allow while he faces an awkward direction, blind.

They move, slowly at first, then faster, the noise surrounding them slowly decreasing, diminishing until it is the usual murmur of the crowd on the street.

He is released then, his face let up from the musky folds of the shirt, though the arm remains around his shoulders. He blinks to adjust his eyes to the light, makes out a blob of ash blond and a higher floating blob of blond. Another blink, some rubbing of his eyes, and he sees how it was Kawanishi who had pulled Semi to him, sheltering him from the crowd as Ushijima had done for him.

Ushijima.

He glances up at the man, at his normally stoic face, flushing when he realises that he is being stared at.

Ushijima says nothing for a moment, simply scrutinising his face. Then, he says, “Put your hoodie on.”

He stares, uncomprehending. Ushijima’s brows furrow, and removes his arm – Shirabu misses his warmth immediately – to unwind the hoodie around his waist, pulling it off and offering it to him.

“Take mine. It is larger, and will hide you better.”

He reaches out wordlessly, accepting the jacket, pulling it over his shoulders. Ushijima is right – the hoodie is far too large for him, extra material hanging off his wrists, the hem falling to mid-thigh. It is warm, from the heat of his body, and he hugs it closer to himself, savouring the warmth and allowing himself a daydream.

The hood is lifted onto his head – gently, oh, _so_ gently – and he meets olive eyes for a second, with the hint of a smile. His arm winds itself around his shoulders again, and he leans into the embrace, even though it is awkward while they are trying to walk. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does his partner.

Up ahead, the members of their group lead the way, quiet and contemplative, their backs hunched.

\-----

The corps is abuzz the next day, the newspaper passed around like it is the Holy Grail. He hides himself in the corner of the studio, stretching at the barre, refusing to look at the headlines that he has already read.

**BALLERINA TAKES TO HIP-HOP: A CAREER CHANGE?**

He knows what they are saying. No one has made an effort to lower their voices, gossiping loudly, as if he is not there.

_What if Washijou-san kicks him out?_

_Ohmygod,_ I _could be principal next!_

No wonder _there are two understudies._

_Ooh, look, it’s Semi!_

_What? Let me see!_

_Did he learn hip-hop so they can elope?_

_Silly, Semi's in figure skating now._

_Ah, but how romantic!_

He cringes at their assumptions, turning his back as he goes through the warm-up exercises. He didn’t learn _breaking_ for Semi. Heck, he can barely stand the guy. He learnt it to escape from ballet, to escape the pressure on his toes, to escape the stabbing loneliness that comes from standing alone on stage.

_His arm is warm, his body heat inviting. It is a comfort from the bite of the wind, from the worry that weighs on his heart._

_He suddenly realises that they’re not moving, and looks up, only to feel fingers press against his chin and lift._

No, he didn’t do it for Semi.

He did it for the slightest chance of getting to know Ushijima better, and he regrets nothing.

_Olive meets hazel, a breath shared between them. He doesn’t dare to speak, doesn’t want to break the spell._

_“I am sorry.”_

_A tinkle of glass shattering, a blink as the illusion dissipates. The world starts turning again._

_“For what?” He breathes. They are close, too close, and he does not really register the words, enraptured by the lights reflected in his eyes._

_Brows furrow slightly, and his tone is uncertain. “For letting you be seen. The media is reckless, and you will suffer.”_

_“I’ll be fine.”_ Because I have you, _he does not say._ Because I believe in you.

_His fingers move, and his hand cups his cheek, moving till their foreheads touch. They stand, wrapped in silence, white noise fading around them._

_“Will you?”_

The door to the studio opens, and the chattering ballerinas disperse with a screech. He continues his exercises, movements smooth, ignoring the presence at the door.

He regrets nothing, but he is not without fear.

“Kenjirou. Come to my office.”

He lowers himself, releases his grip on the barre. He walks past the gaping and twittering ballerinas, following him out of the studio.

He does not look back.

\-----

The _shamisen_ sings brightly as its strings are plucked, the actors on stage vaulting across the planks, a lively dance. Behind them, two figures dart, pulling at the screen to change the backdrop. They are gone again in an instant, disappearing into the wings, casually ignored by the audience.

He picks up the next set of props, preparing for the change in music, for his cue. He peeks from the curtains, admiring the actors, his eyes drawn to the villain, following his strong, smooth actions.

He almost misses the change, if not for the other _kuroko_ pushing at him to move.

He resolves to stay focused for the rest of the play, tearing his eyes from where they had been inevitably attracted.

The curtains are finally drawn, and he stands in the shadows, watching the actors rise from their bows. He wants to go to them, to step into the light, but it is not his place.

He turns, and follows the other stagehands into the background.

\-----

It is long after the performance, when the actors are released, that he steps into his changing room, carefully wrapped bentos in hand. The man at the mirror turns to greet him, reaching for his hand.

Bentos set aside, he pulls him in, pressing chaste kisses to his jaw, hands light on his hips. The shorter laughs, breaking away to kiss him softly.

“Eat,” he whispers against his mouth. “We have to get going.”

The taller pulls away, slowly enough that he can sense his reluctance. He smiles, detaches the hands from his person. “Later. We can speak later.”

He regards him for a long moment, before smiling a little and turning to the food on the table.

Shirabu smiles sadly, and picks up his own bento.

_“You know why I have called you here.”_

_He does not respond, and a newspaper is slapped down, the accusing words staring up at him._

_“I warned you.”_

_“You did,” he agrees, eyes respectfully downcast. “Sorry for letting you down.”_

_The old man sighs, runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I thought you would have more sense than this.”_

_“It was an accident. The crowd got me–”_

_“_ That _is the problem!” His hand comes down, a loud_ thump _to emphasise his anger. “No dancer should allow themselves to be caught, accident or otherwise.”_

_He thinks he hears an undercurrent of bitterness, of regret. He figures he has nothing left to lose. “Were you once caught?”_

_Fingers tighten into a fist. An inhale is taken before his hand relaxes, bulging veins becoming a little less prominent. “That is none of your business.”_

_A little louder, “You have forty-eight hours to pack and clear the premises. Anything that is owed to you will be transferred into your account.”_

_He walks over and claps Shirabu on the shoulder, squeezing once. He is silent for a while, as if gathering his thoughts._

_When he speaks, his voice is soft, a little nostalgic, a little sentimental. “I wish you fortune with the wind. Thank you for your service.”_

\-----

He pushes himself out of the headspin, stepping back so Goshiki can take his place. They have another performance soon, a small-scale event that they are doing because Yamagata knows the owner.

He presses himself hard with every practice, pouring his frustration and excess energy into his every move. But sometimes, it is not enough. Sometimes, he feels contained by the dance. By his inexperience.

He visits the ice rink regularly, tries to skate as he would have danced before. Sometimes, it works, and for a moment, he is suspended grace, ethereal beauty, an angel descending to bless.

Most times, he falls.

One time, after he trips again, and he pounds the ice until he thinks his knuckles have split, someone stops by him.

He looks up, expecting ash blond, but finds olive instead.

He feels hot and cold all over, shame and embarrassment and guilt poured over him.

Ushijima does not speak, but carefully squats and places a hand over his injured one. “What are you doing to yourself?”

He cannot look at him. “I am a failure.”

“You are not.” It sounds like a question, sort of uncertain, and a little thing inside him breaks.

“I am.” He pulls his hand out from the warmth covering it, rising to his feet and skating away. He hears the heavy scraping of ice as Ushijima tries to follow him, but he is smaller, lighter, faster. He speeds up out of spite, turning around at the height of movement to glide. His arms are spread, the wind whips his hair, and he feels almost regal.

It is a feeling that quickly dies, as he sees how Ushijima struggles to stand. The cover of darkness descends over him, inky black staining and spreading.

Why is he like this? Why is he so untalented? Why can he not find peace, even though he has all he wants?

Why does he keep lusting over what he has left behind?

He crashes into the wall, the impact hurting his back enough that he sinks to his knees. He presses his fists against the ice, watching red dilute to pink, ice shards stabbing him.

 _I will not cry. I will_ not.

But he thinks about his place on the stage now, reduced to a stagehand, a shadow, a mere helper to make others shine, and it hurts.

_(The fairy angel has broken his wings, ground-bound forever more.)_

He never thought he would miss the spotlight this much.

_(He wanders aimlessly, pulling himself along, weak and shaky and frail.)_

He glances up through his bangs, watching his partner skate unsteadily over to him, and the image of him trying his best, though he is clearly unsuited to it, makes a hysterical sob escape.

_(The kindly dryad that takes him in, and teaches him how to walk.)_

He chose this path. He cannot be selfish now. If he wants to continue standing on the same stage as Ushijima, he needs to learn to become the shadow that his role embodies, to fade away and let him stand out.

_(He teaches the dryad how to sing, makes him fairy lights. But dryads need only light of sun, and firefly bulbs at night.)_

He lifts his hands to cover the choking sobs that threaten to pour out.

_(Fairy light is pretty but useless.)_

He needs to become invisible, the perfect support, to bring out the best in him.

_(His heart-fire dies with a stuttering gasp, replaced with a void of dark.)_

His heart shatters, for the ghost of his ballerina self, for what had been and yet lost, for the stage that he was once the centre of.

_(His hope is as lost as his wings, and he sits by the last star in the sky.)_

He allows one tear to leak out, one deep shuddering breath.

_(He looks at the blinding light. How beautiful, he thinks.)_

His hands lower with his exhale, and when he opens his eyes, he kills the last of his former self.

_(He walks into the hole in the trunk, and lets the dryad close him in.)_

He chose this path.

_(He shuts his eyes for eternal sleep, and dreams of fairy lights. Bouncing, bobbing, in the sky, with healed, unbroken wings.)_

He will be happy with being _kuroko_ , because by night, he will stand as Ushijima’s equal in the dance that they lose themselves in.

It is not controlled or smooth, or soft and dazzling.

It is wild and free, passionate and crazy.

It embodies their relationship, an escape turned passion, and he is not afraid.

He stands and skates over to his partner, guiding him to the exit with small touches.

Behind them, pink dilutes to almost clear, dissolving the last of an age.

_(The fairy prince sleeps deep within, sealed forever more. His dance is remembered through the night, when the stars recall their lore.)_


End file.
